The Cafe Musain
by Clare-ity
Summary: When Marie Musain opens her cafe to the idealistic schoolboys who shout for freedom in the public square, she is flung into a world of uncertainty and revolution. The boys become her closest friends and allies, but can their fiery leader convince her to help them fight for a liberated France?
1. Chapter 1

This story, like most stories, begins by accident.

Marie Musain had visited the marketplace that morning because her sister had been feeling ill. Otherwise, she would have continued to sweep the stairs to the Café Musain, unaware that in the market, a group that would change her life was gathering. It's difficult to say how her fate would be different, how, indeed, the fate of France would be different, if she hadn't gone. Explosions only need a spark to begin. And little did she know that she was headed into the flames herself that morning.

The marketplace looked no different to her, as she browsed over the decrepit pickings of the venders for the menu that day. Her family ran the Café Musain, the most successful establishment in St. Michele. Everyday, she thanked God for her good fortune, which was never as glaring as when she visited the market. There was no shortage of beggars lining the streets, many of them small children, and mothers too poor to care for them. The homeless and downtrodden were so numerous that, in all of France, there wouldn't be enough wealthy people to give them each a coin. Marie was acutely aware of the sturdy shoes on her feet, the shawl draped around her shoulders, and the money in her pocket. She was also aware of the fact that any person she met that day would likely try to steal them from her, so she kept mostly to herself.

One person, however, commanded her attention.

"Mum!" he shouted, his jubilance at seeing her in direct contrast to the drudgery that surrounded him.

She rolled her eyes. "Hello, little Gavroche. You're not causing too much trouble today are you?"

He crossed his arms. "I'm _not _little."

She shook her head and smiled. Gavroche was one of the many children who lived alone on the streets, and led a ragtag bunch of orphans around the city. Marie had befriended him after she found him rummaging through the garbage behind the café one day. Since then, she tried to take care of him and his friends as best she could, and had earned the nickname, "mum".

He grabbed her hand. "You _have_ to come with me. There's a man in the square, and you have to hear what he's yelling about."

"Gavroche, there's always men yelling in the streets about nothing. And I haven't paid for these potatoes yet—"

"Come with me!" he shouted, his grip surprisingly strong for a child so small and underfed. Marie threw the money she owed, with a little extra, at the vender and followed the blond boy into the square.

When they finally navigated through the market, Marie had to admit that there was a pretty impressive crowd gathered around a man in the square near the government offices. She couldn't tell what he was saying at first, but when she got closer to him, she immediately understood why he drew so much attention.

He was easily the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes on.

It was true that Marie's standards were not very high, as there was an obvious shortage of handsome men living on the streets near the café. But she had a feeling that this one would be attractive by any standard. He was tall and blond, with eyes blue enough to be seen from the edge of the crowd. He wasn't overly muscular, but built enough that she could tell he didn't come from poverty. There wasn't any twitch in his posture or desperation in his eyes that hinted he had ever lived in uncertainty. He spoke with a steady assurance that commanded attention, and she liked the sound of it, although she was too distracted by his face to listen to the words. In that moment, he was an absolute angel, which was a refreshing change from the dirty and crude men she usually dealt with.

Gavroche tugged on her sleeve. "Isn't this amazing, mum?"

"Oh, yes, amazing indeed," she agreed distractedly.

His voice shook with excitement. "I mean, can you imagine being part of a revolution?"

"Revolution!" she exclaimed, shaken out of her reverie at last. "Where did you get a crazy idea like that?"

He looked at her incredulously. "That's what he's been talking about for the last five minutes."

She looked back to the man, and with this revelation he was suddenly completely unappealing. "Well, it's all nonsense really. Do you see any important people stopping to listen to him?"

"But all these people stopped! Are you saying they're not important?"

She sighed. Truly, she was glad Gavroche hadn't become too jaded by the world just yet, even if that would be inevitable. But she wasn't in the mood for some kind of philosophical epiphany; she needed to get back to the café.

"Come Gavroche, we're going to be late for lunch. And I believe it's your turn to do the dishes."

This distracted him like she knew it would. Her mother had enlisted the help of Gavroche and some his friends in the kitchen, hoping to get them off the streets for at least a few hours. Gavroche, it seemed, was the only one unwilling to spend time with Marie's infinitely lovable mother.

"Aw, no, I did the dishes last night!"

"_Louis_ did the dishes last night," she baited him, and they continued arguing lightly until they returned to the café.

Marie's mind often returned to the man in the square that day, but mostly in daydreams over his strong jaw and blue eyes. She couldn't care less about the ridiculous-and, frankly, dangerous-ideas of revolution that he was spreading. France didn't need such treasonous talk; mostly, the people just needed bread. Even her own café had been deprived of some necessities, and with her father dead, her mother worried how they would survive if times got worse. She was turning this over in her head while she took out the trash that evening, when she heard a familiar voice in the street.

"Everything we do is a waste of time if we don't have anywhere to hold meetings. Yelling in front of a building will only get us so far."

She paused. It was undoubtedly the man from the square, but she peered around the edge of the building to be sure. He was standing with a group of young men, looking displaced and lost without a large crowd and a soapbox.

"Well, we can't very well go into a pub and announce we're starting a revolution," another sighed. He was about as tall as the man from the square, but much more tired-looking and subdued, as if he repeated this statement quite a bit.

"What we need," a curly-haired young man interjected, "is a place with privacy. A place that we can call our own without drawing the wrong kind of attention." He gestured while he spoke, and had a kind of exuberance that made everyone in the group listen.

A scruffy-looking man with glassy eyes scoffed. "What I need, dear Courfeyrac, is a drink."

The beautiful man groaned. "Grantaire, I will not feel the least bit sorry when you inevitably die from consuming that foul stuff."

Grantaire clutched his heart dramatically. "Why, Enjolras, you insufferable bastard, when I die, you will be so heartbroken that you'll fling yourself into the hole with me when they lay me to rest."

So he had a name, after all.

"_You're _an insufferable bastard." Enjolras recounted.

"You're _both_ insufferable," the tired one interrupted, rubbing his eyes. "It's no wonder why no one will rent us a room."

Marie had decided her plan moments before, but felt it a good moment to interrupt. These men were obviously well off, and she could not think of a better scenario than renting her café to a group of wealthy students who liked to hear themselves talk. She disagreed with their revolution, of course, but if they invited a crowd of people and talked late into the night, she could charge them a fortune. She smoothed her hair, and pinched her cheeks for color. She was pretty enough to draw their attention, and she knew she had an offer they could not refuse.

"Excuse me, gentlemen," she called demurely, stepping around the building, "But I couldn't help overhearing your conversation, and I believe I have a way to help."

Enjolras glared at her suspiciously. "I'm sorry, but we're not interested in your services."

She furrowed her eyebrows. "But I haven't even…" She suddenly understood his implication, and her eyes widened in horror. "I'm not a—I'm not a prostitute!"

For a second, Marie had the satisfaction of watching the man's face turn completely red. The moment was broken, however, by Grantaire's grating laugh. "Oh God, Enjolras, is it any wonder why you're still a virgin?"

Several of the men laughed, and Marie had to bite her lip to keep from joining them. The tired man stepped in front of Enjolras, obscuring his murderous glare. "Please excuse these fools, mademoiselle. I am Combeferre," he offered his hand, which she shook, "and I, at least, am curious about this offer."

She smiled. "My family owns this café, and we do have a private room in the attic. It has its own separate entrance in the back, and it rarely ever gets used. I'd be more than willing to rent it to you for these meetings you want to hold. I assure you that no one would bother you there, and the room can hold about fifty people."

Combeferre laughed. "I am immediately suspicious of this perfect offer. May we see the room?"

She thought in a panic to the current dilapidated state of her attic. "Of course! You may come back tomorrow evening."

"And how much would you ask for this?"

Marie tried her best to look confident in her response. "Fifty francs a week for completely private use of the upper room."

"Fifty francs a week!" cried Enjolras.

Marie peered around Combeferre. "Perhaps you can afford more, Monsieur?"

The curly-haired man, Courfeyrac, snickered and patted Comberferre on the back. "Don't listen to that one. We are more than grateful for this generous offer. But I'm afraid I didn't catch your name?"

"Marie Musain," she said, offering her hand. He took it and kissed it, and the other men took turns doing the same, except for Enjolras. He stood in front of her, and looked down at her with suspicious eyes. "You must understand, mademoiselle, how important this organization is. We are not a group of trifling schoolboys; we will need and demand a great deal of respect for that from you and your family."

She cleared her throat. "Monsieur, you can expect no less than that from me."

"Well then," he said, giving her his hand to shake. "Welcome to the Friends of the ABC."


	2. Chapter 2

Marie ungracefully ran through the back entrance of the café, which opened into the kitchen. "Mama! Mama!"

"My God, Marie!" her mother exclaimed, turning away from the stove. "What's happened?"

Marie clutched the table and panted for breath. "I found a group of men to rent the upper room indefinitely."

Marie's sister, Brigitte, turned from the tub of water. "Really, Marie? Since when have you ever been able to convince a man to do anything for you?" Brigitte was a small thing, pale and thin from her easy submission to illness. But what she lacked in strength, she made up for in wit.

"Now wait a minute," Marie's mother interjected, slapping her wooden spoon against the counter for emphasis, "I cannot believe you would make an offer like this without asking me first. You know that every part of this business was given by your father to be run by me and your obvious disregard for this makes me think that you are not responsible enough to—"

"They're willing to pay fifty francs a week!" she blurted out.

"Fifty francs a week?" her mother shouted, dropping the spoon. "Oh, bless you, child! God never granted a mother a more brilliant and considerate daughter! Oh here, let me kiss you!" Her mother pinched her cheeks and smothered them with kisses. This was just Madame Musain's nature; she could not stay mad at those she loved for any length of time.

"What _other_ services did you offer them?" Brigitte muttered.

Marie swatted her arm. "Oh, hush up and give me a rag." Brigitte threw one at her and she started drying the dishes on the counter. "However, that means we have to clean the attic."

"Well, how much time do we have?" her mother asked. "We can bring the furniture up from the basement, and scrub the windows, and—"

"They're coming tomorrow."

"WHAT?" Madame Musain nearly dropped the pot she was stirring. "Girls, up in the attic! NOW!"

The three stumbled upstairs, and were caught for a moment in sheer panic. The cobwebs and debris strewn throughout the room were the least of its problems. It was furnished only in dust and the occasional storage chest, and its dirty windows would not let light through even on a sunny day.

Brigitte coughed. "Brilliant thinking, Marie."

"Honestly, it isn't so bad," Marie said, lifting some ragged curtains. But she let out a scream when she saw the family of spiders residing behind it. "Or, maybe we have a lot of work to do."

The three Musain girls closed the café that day so they could invest their time in the attic. The room was noticeably smaller than Marie remembered it to be, but figured the idealistic group of men would not be able to attract many followers anyway. When they were finished cleaning it, the room was actually quite nice, and they were able to fit in a few long tables with benches. It probably wasn't up to the standards these bourgeoisie were used to, but she figured it would have to do.

Marie paced in front of the café that night, smoothing her clean dress and running over what she would say to the men when they arrived. What if they were unimpressed with her efforts? She was counting on this money; without it, she might have to consider an alternative to help her family that actually made her sick to her stomach: marriage. And the only men who would deign to marry her at this point were lonely widowers with several children. No, she would have to impress these men.

Her thoughts were broken by a familiar voice. "Mademoiselle Musain?"

"Oh, Monsieur Combeferre!" she gasped, turning to greet him, "Please, call me Marie."

They shook hands pleasantly, and she noticed he was not alone. "Monsieur Enjolras, how nice to see you again."

He gave her hand a quick shake, while studying the building. "We would be much obliged if you would show us that upper room."

"_After_ we meet the master of the house," Combeferre prompted, with a pointed look at Enjolras.

He nodded. "Of course."

"If you'll follow me." Marie led them to the back of the building, and through the door of the kitchen. "My mother took over control of the café after my father's death a while back."

"Oh, I'm so sorry," said Combeferre, but Marie waved away his sympathy.

"Mama?" she called. Her mother was bent over the tub of water, scrubbing pots and pretending to look busy. "Our new patrons are here."

"Ah, yes," she said, turning and wiping her hands on her apron. "Now boys, I want you to know that I will not tolerate any kind of nonsense from you and your peers. I expect the utmost respect for my family and my facilities. There are often children here in this kitchen, and I am trying to bring the poor dears up in a proper Christian household. I will not allow any kind of drunkenness, foul language, or women with loose morals into this establishment, and I know how prone young men like you are to engaging in questionable behavior."

Marie bit her lip to keep from laughing as Madame Musain rambled on. Her mother's bluff was so easy to tell, even when you hadn't known her for your entire life.

"Furthermore," she continued, "I will serve only what is on the menu, and expect prompt and proper pay for the services we provide and, and…oh, dearie, what's happened to your coat?" She abruptly stopped her speech to inspect a tear in Enjolras' brown jacket. "Why, you've torn the button right off."

He cleared his throat. "Oh, yes, it's been broken for some time now. I just keep forgetting to have it fixed."

"Now, that won't do at all," Madame insisted, her motherly instinct taking over her business tone. "Here, give it to me and I'll fix it right away. I think I have a similar button."

"Oh, no, really it isn't necessary—"

"That wasn't a request, love," she said, taking the jacket off for him, "A young man like you needs a good, solid coat, and—oh! This isn't very well-made at all!" She turned the coat over, _tsking _at its shoddy quality. "My goodness, I cannot allow a handsome man like you to walk around in a rag like this any longer. Come with me, I have just the thing."

Marie interrupted, afraid of what might happen if she let this go on any further. "Mother, really, his coat is none of our business, and I'm sure they would like to see the room—"

"Marie, really," her mother admonished quietly, "Where is your courtesy? You'll never reign in a husband like that."

"Mother!" she squeaked, and watched amusement cross Enjolras' face for the first time.

"Now, if you insist on taking them upstairs, I'll meet you in a moment." Her mother waved them away, though Marie was a bit worried about leaving her by herself to "fix" the man's coat.

Marie led them up the back staircase and into the room she hoped was at least suitable. Neither man said anything for a moment, and Marie's anxious gaze picked out several of the room's insufficiencies while she waited for a response.

Finally, Combeferre sighed. "This is exactly what we need. Isn't it, Enjolras?"

He wrinkled his nose. "It's a bit smaller than I imagined."

Combeferre shrugged. "But, as much as you hate to admit it, it's much less expensive than any other place we could find."

Marie silently cursed herself. She should have charged them more. "Well, I'm glad you like it. You may start renting it any time you wish."

"Tomorrow?" Enjolras asked with a hint of a smile.

Marie opened her mouth to respond, but was interrupted by her mother's voice coming up the stairs. "Here it is! I knew I had it somewhere!" She came into view, and proudly displayed a bright red, perfectly kept coat.

Marie's eyes widened in horror. "Mother, you aren't thinking that…"

"That this coat would look much better on this young man than in the back of the closet?"

Enjolras' hands shot out in front of him, as if to protect himself from Madame Musain's motherly sentiments. "Oh, no, Madame, really I couldn't possibly…"

"Here, love, try it on," she jerked him around and pulled the coat onto his arms for him. As much as Marie would hate to admit it, he did look dashing in it, as if the coat was made for him.

"There!" her mother cried, "Isn't it wonderful?"

"But it's father's," Marie said quietly.

Madame Musain smoothed the coat thoughtfully. "You know your father always said that there was no sense in keeping anything that another person could use. Besides, this is his soldier's coat, and he was never much of a soldier. And when you walked in here, Monsieur, you reminded me so much of him as a young man. So bright. So handsome." Her mother looked away for a moment, and then turned back to the stairs. "Oh, look at me, getting all sentimental when there's a supper to be put on the table. I hope you enjoy your stay, boys." And she was gone.

Marie didn't know what to say. Enjolras stood in the flashy coat with a look of embarrassed bewilderment, while Combeferre stood behind him, trying his best not to appear ill at ease. Marie couldn't look at either of them when she spoke. "Well, if that's all you need, I'll be going."

"Marie, wait," Enjolras said, stopping her suddenly. She couldn't help but notice it was the first time he had ever addressed her by name, and much to her dismay, she liked the way he said it. She turned and tried her best to look him in the eye.

"Yes, Monsieur?"

"I really can't keep this…"

Marie held up a hand to stop him. "You must. My mother will undoubtedly want to see it on you every time you walk into the café, I'm afraid."

He looked down. "But if it's your father's—"

Marie sighed. "That's a soldier's coat, Monsieur, and my father wasn't a soldier, even if he was in the army. He didn't believe in war," she paused, fumbling with the fold in her apron to avoid his gaze. "Well, maybe that isn't quite right; he really didn't believe in violence. He used to say that there was no sense in going off to fight when there was a war right here in France against poverty and indifference." Marie smiled a bit, remembering how her father's eyes would drift off when he said that, as if he wasn't talking to her, but to the people who passed by on the streets. He wasn't an educated man, but he understood things that no one else did, and Marie loved him most for that.

There was a moment of silence before Enjolras spoke again. "I feel as if that's everything I've been trying to say for years in one sentence."

Marie shrugged. "My father was good with words." She met Enjolras' eyes finally, and looked at him again in the coat. "It suits you well. Wear it proudly."

"I will," he said quietly, looking down at the jacket. He noticed a small pin on the collar, and carefully undid it to get a better look. It was a small and simple gold cross, and Enjolras noticed Marie eyeing it. He handed it to her silently.

She scrunched the corner of her mouth into a smile. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_," Combeferre said, finally stepping next to Enjolras, "We truly appreciate your service."

She glanced over his shoulder and out the window overlooking the street. All the people in the shops below had no idea what these men had planned for them. She shook her head, and looked directly at Enjolras when she spoke.

"Just don't make me regret it."


	3. Chapter 3

"So really, Marie, how often do you prostitute yourself to these men?" Brigitte asked, only half-jokingly, as she and her sister cleaned the tables in the attic. They had just finished tending to the group of young men for the first time, and it had gone surprisingly well.

"Oh, please, Brigitte. I don't have to do anything but let them look at me, and they always come back." Marie countered, laughing. She could afford to be cheerful now; after serving the men dinner and seemingly endless bottles of wine, she had made two hundred francs. And that was without the fee for renting the room. She was positively ecstatic.

They finished cleaning, and went downstairs to help their mother. Their cheerfulness, however, immediately drained out when they saw the state of the kitchen.

"Mama!" Marie exclaimed, taking in the filthy pots, grimy floor, and dirty tub water. "What in God's name happened here?"

Her mother sat at the table, holding a cold pack of ice to her forehead. "Never in all my years have I cooked so much in one single night. I don't know how you expect me to keep this up, girls."

Brigitte plopped down next to her. "Well, we were expecting you to do it again tomorrow night…"

"TOMORROW?!"

Marie practically threw a bucket at her sister's head. "You hush up and go get some more water. I'll clean up here."

Brigitte obeyed with an eye-roll, and Marie set to work mopping the floor. "You need to get some help in here, Mama. You'll work yourself to death."

"Oh, it's not so bad," her mother said, waving dismissively, "But it would help if I didn't constantly have to run to the front door to let customers in down here."

Marie smirked. "I'll do my best to find you a doorman."

Her mother snorted, and then groaned. "And those men are so loud! What were they talking about up there?"

Marie shrugged, and did her best to be flippant. "Oh you know, the usual: women, politics, overthrowing the bourgeoisie…"

"WHAT?" she shrieked, but then sighed. "Actually, don't repeat that. I'd rather not know."

Brigitte returned after a moment, and Marie put a pot of water on the stove to make tea. She and her sister quickly finished the dishes, while their mother continued complaining of her various aches and pains. Marie asked if all the children had been fed, and her mother responded with a wistful yes, as she wished the poor orphans would just stay in the café, rather than return to—well, wherever they were living at the time.

Marie poured a cup of tea, then stopped suddenly. "Isn't it strange how normal things seem? I thought that once we actually made a decent amount of money, we would act differently."

"It's only been one night, Brigitte shrugged, then looked dreamily at the ceiling. "But at this rate, I could get a new dress."

"And some new pots," her mother added.

Marie smiled lazily. "And there's that new hat I've been wanting for some time…"

"You know, I hate to admit it, Marie," Brigitte said thoughtfully, "But this may be the smartest thing you've ever done."

Marie recognized the insult, but accepted it graciously. "These men could be our ticket to a long and prosperous life."

She was wrong of course, but for now, she was content to live in ignorance.

The café was relatively quiet for the next few days, without the company of the Les Amis, or so they liked to call themselves. Marie was almost starting to miss them, when she heard a knock on her back door one evening.

She answered it, and was surprised to realize how happy she was to greet the visitor. "Monsieur Enjolras! Welcome back." She gave a slight curtsy, which he acknowledged with a smile. He had become more cordial to her since their first meeting, and had almost been pleasant last time he visited the café.

"Why Marie, always a pleasure," he returned, with almost enough sincerity to be convincing. "I'm sure you'll remember my friend, Marius?"

"I do indeed," she smiled, offering him her hand. She didn't even bother offering the same to Enjolras anymore; something about that courtesy bothered him.

Marie liked Marius immediately after meeting him. There was something about him that hinted of good breeding, without adding in any false affectations. He was tall and handsome, though not quite as tall or as handsome as Enjolras. This, however, was more than alleviated by his easy charm and earnest smile. He was committed to their cause (though Marie was still unsure as to what, exactly, their cause was), but not as prominent in it as its blond leader. Because of this, Marie could easily talk to him.

"Oh, and I've brought along my friend today," Marius added, almost as an afterthought. He gestured to a girl behind him, and Marie's good nature immediately cooled. "This is—"

"I _know_ who she is," Marie interrupted icily. "And she's not welcome here."

Both Enjolras and Marius looked to her in shock, but the girl merely lifted her chin knowingly. She was scraggly looking and dirty, no different from any other urchin on the street. But she had a reputation, and she knew it.

Marius, however, seemed to be oblivious.

"Marie, I don't understand…"

"She's the Thenardier girl," Marie spat, "And she can't pretend she isn't. I can't even begin to count how many times we've been robbed by that family, and I have half a mind to call for the police immediately."

The girl was not at all fazed by Marie's attack. In fact, her mouth widened into a crude smile, and she curtsied mockingly. "So you've heard of me, Mam'selle? Glad to hear my name gets around."

"Get out of here, Eponine," Marie growled, quite aware that she was causing a scene.

Eponine smirked, then turned and thanked Marius for bringing her. Marie thought she looked rather shy when she spoke to him, which would have been a first for the girl. Before leaving, however, Eponine was sure to knock Marie out of the way with her shoulder.

"You should be more careful, Marius," Marie chided after the girl was out of sight. "Girls like Eponine will rob you blind."

Marius glared at her. "I think you were a bit harsh."

Marie shrugged and casually dipped her hand into her apron pocket. "Wait a second—" she frantically searched through every pocket and fold of her dress, and then slumped against the doorframe in despair. "She stole my purse!"

In the second it took Eponine to bump Marie's shoulder, she had snatched her purse, which incidentally held all of the café's earnings from that day. Marie had thought keeping the money within her reach was the safest way to store it, but evidently she hadn't factored a pickpocket into the equation.

Enjolras' eyes widened. "Are you sure you didn't just misplace it?"

"Of course I'm sure!" Marie exclaimed. "I just had it in my pocket, within the reach of that girl. God, you'd expect this sort of thing from a con." She gave Marius a pointed stare, and he looked down apologetically.

"Would you like me to find her?"

She waved them away. "No, no, just go to your meeting. I'll deal with the Thenardiers." Marie took off before they had a chance to stop her.

She knew that the family lived in a hut near the market, as she'd seen them play their tricks on many unsuspecting and charitable people. She stomped down the avenue to the market, muttering curses along the way. She would not have her family's hard earnings stolen by an insolent little rat, not when there was food to be put on the table and young children to take care of…

"And don't come back 'till you've made at least twice that, girl!"

Marie stopped at the piercing sound, and quickly hid behind a shop. She peered out enough to see Eponine thrust out onto the street corner, into the dirt. The slam of the door shut afterward was like a slap in the face, and Marie could feel its full blow even across the street. She scrunched against the wall of the shop, fearing that Eponine's father had seen her and would come out to find her. She should start running now, and not stop until she was in the full safety of the café, warm in her mother's kitchen, close to her bed and safe from this lunatic…

But then she heard faint sobbing, and her thoughts sobered up a bit. The Thenardiers were awful, but maybe Eponine wasn't yet rotted to the core as they were. The girl couldn't be older than seventeen, and she deserved better treatment than what her parents gave her. Better treatment than Marie, herself, had given her.

Besides, she might still have the money with her.

With a large inhale and a quick sign of the cross, Marie approached the sobbing girl.

"Hey, come on now, you can't stay here."

Eponine looked up, the hurt in her eyes immediately dissolving into hate. "Come to call the police, have you?"

Marie grabbed the girl's wrist. "Eponine, we have to get out of here. Now."

Eponine pulled away. "Oh, what do you care? Just get away from me."

"So you really want to stay here?"

There was a loud crash from inside the hut, and Eponine's eyes widened in fear. "No."

"Then come with me."

Marie grabbed Eponine once again, and they both set off running in the direction of the café. When they finally reached the back door, Eponine slumped against Marie and sobbed quietly. Marie was surprisingly touched by the gesture; there was a softness to this girl after all.

"There, there, it'll be alright. Come inside." Marie led her through the kitchen.

Madame Musain looked up from the stove, and was immediately overcome with motherly concern. "Aye, dearie! What's the meaning of this?"

"We have a guest for the night," Marie announced, quickly leading Eponine into the room next to the kitchen that she shared with her sister. She sat Eponine down on one of the small cots, and opened her wardrobe. "Here, change into this, and we'll wash the clothes you have on."

She held up her hands. "You don't need to—"

"Eponine," Marie sighed, "Just do it."

Eponine took the simple dress, and smoothed the fabric. "I'm sorry."

Marie softened. "As am I."

"But you were right."

Marie shrugged. "Well, I'm sorry I was, anyway." She turned to leave. "I'll let you change. Are you hungry?"

Eponine shook her head. "Not at all."

Marie nodded, but told her mother to bring the girl a bowl of soup before heading up to the attic with more wine for the men. Marie and Brigitte were up late that night cleaning the dining rooms, and slept in later than usual.

Eponine was gone when they woke up, but Marie's purse was left on the bed, with the exactly right amount of money still safely inside.


	4. Chapter 4

Marie didn't see Eponine for a few days, but couldn't dwell too long on her worry. The men were beginning to figure out their meeting schedule, and occupied the upper room of the café more frequently. Marie worked around the clock, delivering orders to both the lower and upper levels, and even sent some of Gavroche's more trustworthy friends to the market in her place. As she became more cut off from the goings on of Paris, however, Marie was drawn more closely into the world of the Les Amis.

They were a strange bunch; at once amicable with those around them and fiercely indignant of those in power. Most of them were mere schoolboys, but talked of politics and poverty as if they were trained artists of the subjects. They liked nothing better than to argue with each other, or any person who dared come against their own opinions. But they were boisterous and light-hearted just the same, and Marie grew quite fond of them.

There was, of course, their bold and headstrong leader, never shy with his opinion or weak in his convictions. But Marie came to see more in Enjolras as the days passed. There was a way about him that commanded attention, but he never failed to listen to a voice, however small, and took a great deal of interest in the people around him. His attic meetings would always begin with a loud and almost incomprehensible sermon, but what Marie liked best were the looks of full attention he gave anyone who spoke after. In the short time she knew him, she could already tell he was a born leader, and a good one at that.

Next to Enjolras was always Combeferre, a student of philosophy, who put his degree to good use. He was the most logical of the group, and served as second in command. The ragtag bunch of men needed a guide, and Combeferre's cool head and reasonable outlook always brought them back to earth from their lofty aspirations.

Courfeyrac was also prominent, though not for his reasoning or plan-making skills. He was simply enthusiastic about every aspect of the Amis. He never spoke a word without gesturing around the room, never listened to an argument without a glint of wonder in his eye. His excitement served as a direct contrast to Grantaire, whose ever-present drunkenness seemed to be the bane of Enjolras' existence. As far as Marie could tell, Grantaire believed in nothing, hoped for nothing, desired nothing, except for the occasional acknowledgement from his blond leader. Marie liked him well enough, however, if only because his drinking habit cost him a small fortune every meeting. Still, his antics made her laugh, even if she did feel sorry for him.

And there were plenty of others. Marius, who maintained a friendship with Eponine and assured Marie that she was as well as could be; Jean Prouvaire, who often sat in the corner with a large book and his romantic ideas; Joly, a medical student who was so happy all of the time that Marie had taken to calling him "Jolly". And there were more that fit into the background and gave Marie a better idea of what this group stood for, though she only caught bits of their conversation, and much of it went over her head. Still, she was happy enough to be in the middle of it, taking in second-hand the enthusiasm of the men who believed strongly and naively in the fact that they could change the world.


	5. Chapter 5

Madame Musain was soon able to hire a young widow to help her in the kitchen, so Marie was relieved of some of her duties in the café. In her first moment of free time, she rushed down to the market, eager to participate again in Paris life. This, of course, could mostly be blamed on the Les Amis, who shared their stories of encounters on the streets of Saint Michele. Marie browsed the market for a bit, not looking for groceries as much as she was looking for people.

She spotted someone quickly enough.

"Eponine!" Marie called, seeing the girl leaning against a doorframe. Eponine immediately averted her eyes, and made no attempt to respond. Marie approached her anyway.

"Eponine, what's new with you? I haven't seen you in weeks!"

Eponine grabbed Marie and threw her behind the frame of the door. "Quiet mam'selle, or you'll ruin my cover."

"Cover?" Marie asked, but realized what Eponine was doing as she slunk behind a well-dressed man. In a movement that was only visible to Marie, she snuck her hand into his back pocket, and snatched his coin purse. She was back to Marie ten seconds later, looking well pleased with herself.

"Ah, twenty francs in one shot. Not bad in the least."

Marie would have scolded her, if she hadn't been wishing she herself could pull a trick like that. She smirked instead. "So this is what you've been doing since I last saw you?"

Eponine shrugged. "It's what I've been doing for my whole life."

Marie raised her eyebrow. "So that's how you got my purse back from your father?" Eponine looked down shyly and bit her lip. Marie smiled. "Thank you for that."

"I stole it from you in the first place, mam'selle."

"Well, at least you didn't keep it." Marie scrunched her lip to the side. "Which reminds me, I was wondering if you'd like a job. At the café."

Eponine's eyes returned to Marie's in shock. "A _job_? Doing what?"

"My mother needs someone to watch the door to the café, to make sure no one…_unsavory_ manages their way in," Eponine raised an eyebrow, and Marie continued quickly, "We could pay you ten francs a week."

Eponine snorted. "That isn't much. I could make more by simply standing on the streetcorner."

"Well, maybe during the day, but after nightfall, there's not much a girl can do over here to make money—" Marie froze, realizing exactly the sort of thing women could do to earn money at night. Eponine looked vaguely sick at the thought, so Marie covered. "I mean, I know it isn't much money, but it's a steady income. And you could keep it for yourself. Besides, you'd be near Monsieur Marius…"

Eponine shot her a glare, but then looked away and sighed. "Well, I'll think about it."

"Please do," Marie said, turning to leave. "And Eponine? Don't be a stranger. I didn't mean what I said last time—you _are _welcome in the café."

Marie didn't hear Eponine's response, if she gave one, because she was stopped suddenly by Courfeyrac, who, as always, wore an excited grin on his face. "Ah, Marie! How are you today?"

She smiled, as she always did when Courfeyrac spoke to her. "Just fine. I believe you're planning a meeting today?"

A bit of the light in the young man's face dimmed, and he sighed. "Enjolras is getting impatient with these meetings. He believes they aren't doing much to help our cause."

Marie's eyes widened as she sensed a threat to her source of income. "He isn't thinking about cancelling them, is he?" When Courfeyrac shrugged, Marie added in a desperate, "Well, maybe I could talk to him! I could certainly ease some of his doubts. You had twice as many people in your last meeting as ever!"

"Would you? He needs that. Enjolras could use some…grounding at times. He doesn't always understand that things don't happen overnight."

Even after months of tending to their meetings, Marie still had very little idea of what Enjolras was actually trying to make happen. But she gave Courfeyrac an encouraging smile and promised she'd speak to Enjolras.

Before Courfeyrac turned to leave, he asked, "By the way, how is your family? Your mother and your sister…is she well?"

Marie sighed. "Brigitte always seems to be sick with something, though I'm starting to think she's just trying to get out of working."

His eyes widened with concern. "Is there anything I can do for her?"

Marie laughed. "How sweet of you to care!"

"Oh, I just, um, well," he cleared his throat, "I mean, I am a medical student, and I suppose I just have an interest in these things, I mean, if she ever needed someone to look after her—"

"MUM!" they heard suddenly, as little Gavroche rounded the corner to the market. "You won't believe this! The man in the red jacket and the other men that follow him were yelling in the square, and then the police barged in on their stinkin' horses and broke up the entire crowd in ten seconds flat! Everyone just started running and screaming, and I didn't see the men after that, but I know that good for nothin' Inspector was lookin' for 'em, and, mum, he was tearin' mad!" Gavroche panted for breath, and Marie stooped down to look him in the eyes.

"Gavroche, are you hurt? My God, I've told you time and time again not to go into that square without me! You could have been trampled! Here, let me see your arm—"

But Courfeyrac quickly turned him around and questioned him with wild eyes. "Where were the men when you last saw them? Were they able to get away? Were they gathered in front of the Elephant or the big white building?"

"They were in front of the Elephant, sir. I think they were blocking traffic, because there were more carriages in the square than I've ever seen before. The crowd was pretty broken up, so I think they got out alright."

Courfeyrac patted the boy on the shoulder. "Thank you, lad, you've been a great help to me. Now, go do as Marie says, alright? I'll meet you back at the café tonight."

As he ran toward the square, Marie noticed a sizable crowd of people running out of it. "Go back to the café, Gav', and tell Mama what's happened. I'll go see if they need my help."

"But, mum—"

She glared at him, and he took off like a shot. She navigated through the crowd, though all her instincts told her to run as well, and came face to face with Lesgle, one of Marius' close friends.

"Monsieur!" she cried, "What's happened?"

He gripped her shoulder to steady himself, and panted, "Combeferre went down. I sent Courf to help him, but I haven't spotted Marius or Enjolras yet. You know the guard will be looking for him first."

Marie bit her lip and nodded. "Find 'Ferre and help bring him back to the café. I'll look for the others."

Lesgle seemed reluctant to leave her, but knew she wouldn't be much help in moving Combeferre. Before he could object, Marie set off in the direction of the Elephant. The large statue loomed in the town square, and she knew for a fact that Gavroche and his friends sometimes spent their nights inside it. That suddenly gave her an idea, and she pushed through the crowd until she was standing under the statue. Sure enough, she found Marius and Enjolras inside.

"Learned something from the urchins, have you?"

Both men were startled and relieved to see her. "Is it safe yet?" Marius asked.

She shook her head. "The police are still out. If I were you, I'd wait here until nightfall."

"What of the others?" Enjolras asked.

"Combeferre's the worst off, but Lesgle and Courf are helping him. I've been all through the crowd and haven't seen anyone else. When it gets dark, make your way back to the café. It'll be safe there." She ducked out from under the statue before anyone had even noticed she had been there.

Marie took a few backstreets back to the café, and arrived a while later to find the rest of the Amis safely inside the upper room. Jean Provaire sat in the corner with a mostly untouched glass of rum, staring out of his thick glasses with wide eyes. She walked to him and gave his shoulder a sympathetic pat, and turned to find Feuilly, another devout follower of the revolution, attempting to stitch a wound on Lesgle's arm.

"Feuilly, I do hope the stitching on your fans is better than this botched job you're doing," she tsked, and he conceded the needle to her with a laugh. "So, you all got yourselves into a bit of trouble today?"

Lesgle patted a pack of ice to his head, and grunted. "That damn police. They're causing a stir because they suspect our movement's picking up some steam. Otherwise, they would have blocked off the square for traffic in the first place."

Joly cleaned a small cut on his leg obsessively, while averring, "It's your own fault, Lesgle! The unluckiest of us all should never be present at a riot!"

"Yes, Lesgle, you could learn a lesson from me!" slurred Grantaire, whom Marie had not even noticed until then. "The less of yourself you invest in the revolution, the more you remain intact when it spits you out!"

"Yes, I wouldn't expect any more from you, Grantaire," sighed a familiar voice. Enjolras was making his way up the stairs, followed closely by Marius.

Marie frowned. "I thought you would wait for dark."

"Not when there's work to be done here," he stated, and walked around the room, surveying the damage. Courfeyrac was unharmed, but Lesgle and Joly had a few deep gashes. Feuilly's eye was beginning to swell from a violent punch, and Jehan seemed more frightened than anything. As for himself and Marius, both were sore and had visible wounds on their cheeks and necks, but were, for the most part, unscathed. "Where's Combeferre?" He demanded, a bit of quiver in his usually stiff jaw.

Courfeyrac spoke up. "He claims his ribs are broken, and he isn't one to complain unnecessarily, so I called a doctor. Madame Musain is taking care of him downstairs, at the moment."

Enjolras nodded gravely, and turned back to the staircase. "I'll go speak to him, then." Marie frowned. She knew Combeferre was Enjolras' closest friend, but was still surprised to see him so perturbed; she had always considered Enjolras to be the most standoffish of the group. She quickly slipped down the stairs after him.

"Enjolras, are you alright?" she called.

"I'm perfectly fine," he insisted, though his shoulders twitched with every step.

Marie followed behind him closely. "Maybe you should sit and rest. You've been through a hard day."

"I'm not a child, Marie," he growled, not turning to face her.

"Enjolras, please," she reached out to take his arm, and he whipped around and roared.

"Do _not_ hover over me. I don't need you to fix this for me. I am FINE!" He glared at her steadily and panted, but slowly seemed to lose himself, and swayed on his feet. Marie caught him, and propped him against the wall. His head drooped on his neck, and he brought a shaky hand to his face. "I—I'm sorry."

She sighed, and brushed his hair off his forehead. "You're only a man, Enjolras. You aren't made of stone."

He peered at her through his eyelashes, and she quickly pulled her hand away. He ignored her blush and shook his head. "If only you'd seen it. One moment, Combeferre was standing beside me, and then next, he was nearly crushed beneath the crowd." His voice shook and he closed his eyes. "The police—they infiltrated our rally with no warning, no explanation, and no mercy. This is what we're fighting against, Marie. But I'm afraid the others won't see that."

She frowned. "But your men are all here."

"I have the utmost faith in my men. I'm talking about the people. How can they see this display of violence and not be scared away? It will do us no good to rise against the monarchy with a group of people who run at the first sign of trouble."

She bit her lip. On the one hand, she wanted Enjolras and his friends to continue their meetings, if only to help keep her shop open. But on the other hand, she was becoming increasingly worried over what, exactly, their revolution would entail. More violence? More uncertainty?

She glanced up at a deep gash over Enjolras' eyebrow, and suddenly had an idea. "Come, let Combeferre rest for a moment. Your men may want to see you."

Enjolras raised an eyebrow, but followed Marie up the stairs. The Amis had been joined by Brigitte, who was hovering over Courfeyrac for details of the afternoon's events. Joly had finally bandaged his leg, and was furiously cleaning his rags, when he looked up and spotted Enjolras.

"Aye, Enjolras! You've gotten a nasty gash over that eye. Here, I'll clean it for you—"

"That won't be necessary, Joly," Marie interrupted. "In fact, I'd ask you to stop tending to anyone's wounds."

A half dozen pairs of eyes turned to her in disbelief. Brigitte recovered first. "Marie, what's the meaning of this?"

She half smiled. "Well, certainly the wounds would heal faster if they were bandaged. But then, how would the rest of Paris see what you've all been through today? What good is it to speak of the police's violence, when the people can't see the physical proof?"

Marius narrowed his eyes. "You're saying we should go back out into the crowds with exposed injuries so the people can…relate to us better?" Marie nodded, and he scoffed. "Well that's, that's…"

"_Brilliant_," Enjolras breathed, and Marie turned to find him smiling at her widely. "Who are we to hide our marks of oppression, when the government doles out the same punishment to anyone who stands in their way? What are we hiding for? Why should we conceal the damage inflicted upon us? I say, let's abandon our own care and seek out the wounded in the slums. Are we not medical students? Have we no training? Far better is our knowledge served in the streets, where it can be seen, then holed up in here. Let us display our scars to the people, so they know we fight with them, we bleed with them!" Enjolras gestured among his men, who quickly abandoned their own care to rally with him. Soon, they were packing up their bags and heading out onto the street. Enjolras was the last in the room, but took Marie's arm after everyone had left.

"Thank you," he said simply. "You saved us there."

Marie shrugged, but felt rather smug. "Well, you're one hell of a speaker. Although…"

He raised his eyebrow. "What is it?"

"I have a theory about you. I believe you don't really know the people you're speaking about." She stated this boldly, forgetting all boundaries of politeness.

He frowned. "You think I'm out of touch with the people?"

"Well, your speech is awfully fancy. I barely understand you sometimes. And _I've_ had some tutoring. Your biggest problem, Enjolras, is that no one really knows what you're saying. I've seen your rallies. The people like you, but they don't understand you. If they did, they wouldn't run at the first sign of trouble."

Enjolras seemed to want to protest, but mulled over this new concept for a moment. Finally, he gave her a look of resignation. "All right, then. Show me the people I can't seem to reach."

She scoffed, but then considered his position. There was a whole crowd of people that Enjolras would never know without being shown. Dare she expose him to the side of Paris that was even darker than the one he had already seen?

Finally, she picked up a medical basket and went to the closet to retrieve her jacket.

"Fine, get your coat. I'll show you the real slums of Saint Michele."


	6. Chapter 6

Marie and Enjolras walked down the streets in the approaching darkness. She could already feel him tense up beside her, as the cold night air coaxed the nocturnal riff-raff out of their hiding places. The streets around the café were tame enough, but as they moved closer to the seaport, the roads began to fill with nightlife. Loud men, drunken and penniless, stumbled out of bars, only to be led into dark alleyways by scraggly and barely clothed women. A few of these "lovely ladies" even tried to get Enjolras' attention, as he had to be the most handsome potential customer they had ever come across, but he seemed more disgusted by them than anything. This was the playground for all kinds of scum, and the dignified Enjolras could not have been more out of place.

"Marie, how do you know about this place?" he whispered suspiciously.

"You live around here long enough, you'll soon find out the places to avoid."

They walked on, and though Marie did not feel particularly endangered, she noticed Enjolras stepping a bit closer to her every time a man looked their way. He was out of his element, and she was amused to see him uncomfortable for once.

Finally, they arrived at their destination.

"What is this place?" Enjolras breathed.

Marie sighed. "I call it the Rue Mort."

He needed no further explanation. The sick and dying were everywhere to be seen in this forgotten alleyway. Old women were sprawled out at the bottom of decrepit buildings, while old men covered their faces with moth eaten hats and blankets. Mothers sat hunched over their starving children, and men wandered aimlessly, some on amputated limbs and crutches. But the worst were the children; emaciated, grotesque, and moaning with voices that chilled a grown man to the bone. This was the street way to death, and hopelessness permeated the air around them.

For a moment, all Enjolras could do was stare. Never had his dream of republic seemed so necessary, yet so far off. What kind of a nation allows their most needy to die unnoticed in a pit unfit for an animal? He was willing to bet the king's breakfast could feed this entire crowd for a month, and yet they were left to starve and die unaided. For the first time in years, Enjolras felt himself get physically sick, and had to turn away.

Marie left him to himself, and made her way over to a familiar face. "Meg, how are you?"

Meg was an old blind woman, whose hearing seemed to be going as well. "M—Marie?" The old woman clutched Marie's hand.

"Yes. I've brought you some soup, and a pair of gloves. Here, you'll be warmer." But Marie could not free her own hands long enough to help Meg put them on. Meg sobbed a bit as Marie fed her the soup from a tin, and Enjolras looked back at them. Meg cries soon turned into a fitful sleep, and Marie slipped the old gloves onto her hands. She started moving through the crowd, and Enjolras tentatively followed.

"Do you know all of these people?" he asked.

She shook her head. "The shopkeepers on our street have a bit of an understanding; each of us takes care of a selected few."

"Do you come here often?"

"Maybe once a week, when Mama can't stomach it."

They were interrupted by a desperate cry. "Marie! Marie!"

"That's Old Man Maud," she explained, and made her way to him. "I have your whiskey, Maud." She handed the pallid old man a blue bottle, which he accepted with a cry of relief. Enjolras' eyes widened, but Marie shook her head. "It's just water. Poor thing doesn't know the difference anymore."

Enjolras swallowed hard and nodded. Marie was beginning to think she shouldn't have brought him here, when a scrawny woman cried out and grabbed him by the boot. Rather than shake her off, he paused and knelt down. "Miss?"

The woman sobbed and buried her face in his shin. "M'sieur, I prayed for an angel tonight, and the Lord has sent me one. You come from God, I know you do!"

Never had Marie seen a look of wonder as pure as the one that crossed Enjolras' face in that moment. She never knew him to be religious, but couldn't deny that in the bleakness of the night, he looked just like an angel.

Enjolras took the woman gently by the shoulders and turned her to face him. "What is your name?"

"Frances," the woman mumbled, stifled by her tears.

"Frances," he repeated, with the reverence of a prayer, "What is it that you need?"

She leaned her head down on his shoulder, and to Marie's astonishment, he did not pull away. "Nothing, M'sieur. I can't think of a thing."

He held her in silence for a moment. It seemed as if the entire street had gone quiet in respect. Marie wasn't often impressed by the actions of others, but the sight of bold and handsome Enjolras humbled to his knees by a beggar was something of a miracle.

Finally, Frances pulled away. "The night grows cold, M'sieur. Get on your way."

"Frances, can't I take you somewhere?"

"No, no M'sieur! I can't leave here. I don't want to."

Enjolras didn't want to argue with her, mainly because he didn't know how. But before he got to his feet, Frances pulled him back by his arm. "Will you come back, M'sieur?"

He nodded earnestly. "I'll be back every night, Frances. Every night." And he bent down to kiss her hand before he turned to leave.

Now when Enjolras walked back through the street, he was no longer scared or disgusted. He moved among the beggars as a general moves among his troops. Determined. Brave. Proud. He shook hands with the feeble men, gave short smiles to the women, and patted the heads of the children. Without any words or decorum, he had made himself their leader also.

Marie was slightly annoyed at his ease; who was this man, that he could navigate the halls of Paris's most refined university as easily as he could the slums of Saint-Michele? He had been able to win the full support of the beggars in ten minutes, while Marie had been visiting them all her life and never received so much as a "thank you". Her irritation with him continued as they made their way back to the café.

"I can't believe a place like that even exists, in this day and age," Enjolras ranted. He had been going on for quite some time, but Marie had taken to ignoring him. "What, with all the medicine and technology we now have, there is no excuse for any man to die alone on the streets. The only thing that separates those people from death and dignity is money."

Marie shrugged. "Well, money is king."

"No!" Enjolras protested, "The _king_ is king, and he has all the money!"

Marie laughed, though she knew he had not intended it as a joke. He gave her an exasperated look, and she rolled her eyes. Her plan of using the Rue Mort to stun him into silence had backfired completely, and he continued to bemoan the callousness of the bourgeoisie until they reached the crossroad to the café.

Enjolras stopped suddenly. "Ah, Marie, I told Courfeyrac I would meet him and the rest of the men back at his apartment. I believe this is where I say goodnight."

Marie nodded. "Promise me you'll get some rest? It's been a long day, and I'm afraid our little excursion might have drained you of what little energy you had left."

"Are you kidding? I've never felt more energized! Those people—well, they reminded me of what's really important in this revolution. Sometimes, I forget it isn't all speeches and rallies."

Marie hung onto the word "revolution" with some trepidation, but smiled. "Then I feel as if I've helped you."

"You have," he averred, "Immensely." He looked down the street, and frowned. "Perhaps I should walk you back to the café. It's gotten dark since we left."

She flicked her wrist and turned down the street. "Don't be silly, there's nothing here that I need to be worried about. You just go back to your meetings, and—Enjolras?"

She turned back to find Enjolras trapped by a man who held a knife to his throat.


	7. Chapter 7

Marie screamed, though it was too late in the night for any bystanders to come to the rescue. Enjolras clutched the hands that held the knife, but could do nothing to weaken the grip around his throat. The blade gleamed in the faint light, and threw the attacker's features into relief.

Marie gasped. "Julian?"

Enjolras' strangely calm stance staggered a bit when she addressed the man by name. What on earth…?

The man grunted. "This bourgeoisie botherin' you?"

Marie sighed with relief, and threw herself frantically at the man. "Julian! It's alright, he's a friend."

Julian frowned and released Enjolras, who doubled over and panted, "You know him?"

"He's a good friend, though a bit overprotective," Marie shot Julian a glare, which he countered with an openly mischievous grin.

"Dear Marie nursed my sister back to health when she was near dying a few years ago, and I swore to keep an eye on her ever since."

"I see," Enjolras managed, with some difficulty.

Julian appraised Enjolras with a raised eyebrow. "So Marie, you're hangin' about with the upper-crust now?"

Marie cleared her throat, still shaken. "Julian, this is Enjolras; he's a student who frequents the café. I thought he might be interested in visiting the Rue Mort, for a change."

Julian laughed scathingly. "Tryin' to give him a taste of the have-nots, are you?"

Enjolras glanced back and forth between the two of them, and for once couldn't think of a thing to say. He didn't like the way Julian looked at Marie, though there wasn't anything particularly menacing or insincere about his gaze. Maybe it was just that he was looking at her at all.

He studied Julian then, as furtively as he could. The man was young, maybe twenty, and had every appearance of the worst kind of street rat. He wasn't particularly ugly, and might have even been handsome under better circumstances. His long hair flopped into his eyes, which were cast into shadow by his dark brows. Though the rest of his face was boyish, his height made him intimidating, and gave him the swarthy look of a pirate. How he had ever come to befriend Marie, who looked tiny and pale beside him, was beyond Enjolras' comprehension, and he was too tired to try and reason it out for himself. He did notice, however, that Julian's gaze was openly hostile toward him, and he tensed.

Marie must have noticed it, too, for she attempted to ease his glare. "I appreciate the effort, Julian, but you don't have to hold a knife to the throat of every man I come across."

Julian scoffed. "Well, I was passing by the Rue Mort, and Old Man Maud mentioned that you had stopped by, and a man followed you out. What was I supposed to think? I was coming over to the café to see if you were alright, when I saw him and put two and two together."

Her gaze softened. "As I said, I appreciate it."

Julian turned so he was slightly closer to Marie, and said in a low voice, "You know what I told you, you're always protected on these streets." He glared once more at Enjolras, before bowing dramatically and kissing Marie's hand. He stalked off without another word.

That last gesture infuriated Enjolras, and not because Julian had been pointedly mocking him. He didn't like the way the man leaned into Marie when he spoke to her, or how his eyes wandered freely over her face, or especially the way she gave him her hand so willingly. He avoided Marie's eyes by watching Julian walk off, and tried to shake away his unease.

"I'm so sorry," Marie said, finally, "I would never have expected him to do something like that."

Enjolras waved off her apology. "Now I see why you aren't afraid of these streets."

She shrugged. "Julian's gang is protective of those they find worthy of the effort—"

"_Gang_?"

Marie snickered. "You don't know much about Paris, do you?"

Enjolras sighed. "I thought I did. Suppose I've still got some learning to do."

Marie bit her lip. "Did you mean what you said to Frances? Will you go back and see her?"

"Of course," he answered earnestly, and the look in his eyes was enough to assure her.

"That is very kind of you, Enjolras," she said, and looked down shyly. "I suppose kindness is not something I really expected of you."

He raised his eyebrow. "Why's that?"

She shrugged. "I thought you might not have time for kindness, what with this, this _thing_ you're planning…"

"The revolution?"

She recoiled at the word. "Well, I thought the Rue Mort might help put that into perspective. I didn't intend for the whole lot of them to accept you as their leader in one evening."

Enjolras' eyes danced with that same excitement. "You see, Marie? The people understand that this revolution is what France _needs_."

She shook her head slowly and studied his handsome face, his earnest smile, his halo of blond hair, but couldn't bring herself to say what she truly wanted to say. _You're wrong, Enjolras, _she thought instead, _what France truly needs is something to believe in. It needs_ you_._

This realization brought a lump to her throat, as she remembered her father, who held much of the same passion and excitement that this young man did. And where had that gotten him? Sent off to fight and die in the army. She knew what speaking out could do to a person. How could she live through something like that again?

"Are you alright?" Enjolras prompted, after several moments of silence. His voice brought her out of her thoughts.

"Oh, yes, just a bit tired. I should really get on home."

"And you're sure you don't want me to walk you?"

She smirked. "Are you sure you don't want _me_ to walk _you?_" Enjolras laughed, a rare occurrence, and she smiled in return. "No, I'll be fine. And if anyone else bothers you, be sure to drop my name. It'll get you out of trouble."

Enjolras nodded. "I've had plenty of trouble for one day. I'll see you tomorrow at eight?"

"Of course."

He smiled and started walking down the street. Before he was out of sight, however, Marie called after him. "Goodnight, Enjolras!"

He half-turned and waved. "Goodnight, Marie." And she watched as he disappeared up the street.

Enjolras was good to his word, and visited the Rue Mort every night afterward. But he never saw Frances there again.


	8. Chapter 8

Marie woke at six the next morning, after a night of little sleep and strange dreams. She was particularly disheveled when she walked into the kitchen to greet her mother, who was working at the stove.

"Mornin', Mama," she yawned, grabbing a cup for tea.

"Good Morning," her mother said, in a strangely clipped voice.

Marie raised an eyebrow. "How are you?"

"Just fine," she answered shortly. Marie was officially suspicious; her mother never gave short answers to anything.

Marie poured hot water into her cup, eyeing her mother surreptitiously. "Is anything the matter?"

"Oh no," she said, though her posture was stiff and she avoided eye contact with Marie. There was a short silence before Madame Musain cleared her throat. "Where were you last night?"

Marie narrowed her eyes, knowing instinctively that her mother knew the answer. "The Rue Mort."

Madame Musain tsked and finally turned to look at her. "I wish you wouldn't call it that!" She turned back to the stove and added, "Was anyone with you?"

Marie sighed. "I took Monsieur Enjolras."

Her mother slammed her spoon down on the counter. "Aha! You know, Madame Florence in the shop across from ours told me this morning that she saw you with him last night, but I said, no, that isn't my Marie! My Marie doesn't go gallivanting around with men at night—"

"I was not 'gallivanting'!"

"And she most certainly wouldn't make her mother sick with worry when she doesn't come home until nearly midnight! But here you are, telling me that you did, indeed, see this man outside of our business. You! A young, unmarried girl who has a family reputation to uphold!"

"Mother!" she nearly screamed, "Nothing like that happened at all! I merely took Enjolras to the Rue Mort, and then he walked me home. Nothing else!"

Her mother's angry expression faded into disappointment. "No? He didn't make a pass at you?"

"Of course not!"

Madame Musain slumped against the counter. "But you're pretty enough."

Marie opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a faint, exasperated noise. Her mother ignored it. "I mean, of course I wouldn't want anything inappropriate, but he's a good man, with a solid income, and I felt sure that he would be asking for your hand by now…"

"Mother!" she shrieked, "I am not marrying Enjolras!"

Madame Musain looked completely baffled. "Why not? You respect him, don't you? And you can't deny how handsome he is."

Marie buried her face in her hands, feeling as if she were in a particularly horrifying dream. "Mother, I'm not looking for a husband. And besides, the last thing Enjolras would ever want is marriage. He doesn't even notice women."

Madame Musain's eyes widened. "You think he prefers to notice…men?"

"No! For God's sake, Mama, I'm only saying that he has other things on his mind."

Her mother sighed, and looked away. "I don't mean to be so pushy, Marie. It's just that—well, I won't be here forever—"

"Where are you going?" Marie joked half-heartedly.

"—And I just want to make sure you're taken care of."

Marie sighed, and patted her mother's shoulder. "Oh, Mama, I will be taken care of. I have this café, and with the money we're saving, Brigitte and I will be perfectly fine." But Marie was lying and she knew it.

Madame Musain shook her head and sat down. "It isn't just the money. I want you to be happy, Marie. And I'm afraid you'll be lonely, here by yourself. A husband is a wonderful thing to have." She looked away wistfully, and Marie bit her lip.

On the one hand, Marie knew how much her parents had loved each other, and she was deeply grateful for that; their love was the only love she had ever believed in. However, she had seen too many other marriages deprived of that love, and she knew that she would rather be alone than trapped with someone who didn't care for her.

She knelt down to look her mother in the eyes. "I'm not really opposed to marriage, Mama, and I know you only want what's best for me. But I don't want to marry someone just for comfort. I'll get to marrying when I'm ready, and when I find someone whose right for me, alright?"

She sighed and patted Marie's hand. "Alright, dear. I'll try not to interfere."

But of course, interfering was in Madame Musain's nature, and she soon took up the task of crafting every man into "the right man" for her daughter. Marie passed the kitchen that night to find Lesgle and Madame Musain deep in conversation.

"So, you're sure this will prevent the balding?" He asked, holding a blue bottle.

"Oh yes!" she exclaimed. "All the rotten luck in the world is no match for my serum!"

Lesgle thanked her and strode out triumphantly, massaging the liquid onto his head. Marie shook her head as he passed.

Soon, many of the members of the Amis had been subjected to Madame Musain's scrutiny. Jehan Prouvaire once walked out of the kitchen bearing a bible and a faintly frightened expression. He avoided Marie for days afterward. Feuilly came to one of the meetings with a freshly stitched jacket, and left one of his handmade fans for Marie. Joly, on the other hand, appeared one night in an uncharacteristically foul mood, muttering that his hair was not so "garishly red". Marius had avoided Madame Musain only because he had taken to skipping out of meetings, after he and Enjolras had a particularly scathing disagreement, and Combeferre was still bedridden after breaking his ribs in the square. Courfeyrac was charming enough that he gave no reason for improvement, while Grantaire was deemed a lost cause, though Marie did overhear her mother telling him the mass times on Sunday. After about of week of Madame Musain's matchmaking failures, Enjolras began to take notice.

"Marie?" he called one night after everyone had left. Enjolras always stayed later, and Marie tried to give him his privacy.

"Yes?"

"Have you noticed my men acting…_odd_ lately?"

Marie looked down and focused on scrubbing a nearby table. "No more than usual."

Enjolras frowned. "Really? Because your mother seems to be taking a good deal of interest in them."

Marie bit her lip. "Well, she's a generous person."

"I know she is," he said, "but she seems a bit…_overly_ interested in their affairs lately."

Marie sighed, realizing he had figured her out. "My mother's been trying to find me a husband, as of late."

"Has she?" he grunted. "And among my men?"

Marie glared. "I know you may think them above me, but—"

"I don't think any man is above you," he interrupted, "And if there is one, I'd like to meet him." He didn't say it as a compliment; he stated it as if it was the truest and most obvious fact in the world.

She fumbled for words for a moment, before she settled on, "Oh."

"Besides," he shrugged, "My men don't need any more distractions."

She raised an eyebrow; suddenly, his comment no longer seemed very flattering. "You think I'm a distraction?"

He carried on with his papers without looking at her. "Most women are, at least to my men."

"I see," she said coldly, and turned to leave. "Well, I won't stay here and bother you any longer. Be sure to put out the lanterns when you leave." He nodded and waved her off without looking up.

Marie stormed off down the stairs, muttering vaguely to herself. Was that all he saw her as? A distraction?

"I'll give you a distraction, alright," she seethed, and then noticed a stack of pamphlets that one of the Amis must have left behind.

"If they think I'm going to simply get rid of their trash for them, they've got another thing coming—"

She paused to inspect the pamphlets, and suddenly had an idea. She pocketed them and grabbed her coat, sensing a satisfying way to prove Enjolras wrong.


	9. Chapter 9

Enjolras visited the market in Saint-Michele the next morning, choosing to take a stroll rather than protest. He and his men had been trying to keep a low profile after the police attack, and were waiting for Combeferre to make a full recovery before moving along in their plans. He nodded to those he recognized as they passed by, and felt a lonely sense of uselessness. People were counting on him to always know the next move, and it was disconcerting when he had no ideas to give.

He was stopped shortly, however, by a young woman selling vegetables.

"Monsieur Enjolras?" she asked tensely. He raised his eyebrow and nodded. She looked around quickly, scrambled out from behind her cart, and pressed a coin purse into his hand. "For the revolution," she whispered quickly, and hurried away.

Enjolras was completely stunned, and in his distraction almost backed right into a pretty, timid young woman. She curtsied swiftly and gave him several coins without a word. He watched her go, and was accosted by a stout, older woman who carried a large basket.

"I was hearing you mean to stir up some trouble, lad," she said.

He blinked stupidly. "I'm sorry?"

She grinned mischievously and handed him the basket. "If it comes to fighting, boy, the best thing you can have is silver."

He peeked into the basket, which contained a stack of silver utensils. "What?"

"For the bullets!" she exclaimed, and then left with a short bow.

Women followed Enjolras for the rest of the morning with donations of coins and silver. By noon, his pockets and arms were weighed down by the generosity of the Parisian women, and while he was grateful, he was also completely bewildered. It wasn't until he saw Marie peering into the window of the hat shop that he began to understand.

He strode up to her. "Marie, do you have any idea why women have been chasing me around with money all morning?"

She turned to him expectantly, and studied his packages with a bemused expression. "Why Enjolras, I assume it has everything to do with your blue eyes."

He sighed and leaned against the storefront. "You're behind this."

"I really have no idea what you're talking about," she stated defiantly, but the twinkle in her eyes gave her away. Enjolras gave her an exasperated look, which she had become accustomed to, and she laughed. "Well, you left a stack of pamphlets in the café last night, and since you were so ardently opposed to getting any sort of female help yourself, I took the liberty of handing them out to some of my friends."

Enjolras' face fell. "I didn't mean that—surely you know I value anyone's interest in the cause."

"Do you?" she asked seriously. "Because I've known very few people who treat women like they have any value."

He shook his head slowly. "I apologize then, if I gave you the impression that women weren't welcome in the revolution—" again Marie flinched with the mention of the word—"I know that any help we can get is invaluable. I spoke carelessly."

She shrugged. "It was the first instance of your carelessness since I've met you. I suppose you're entitled." She smiled brightly then, and he returned it a bit nervously. Enjolras had known women prettier than Marie, but none could compete with her smile.

He cleared his throat. "I'll see you tonight at the meeting, then?"

"God forbid we let an evening go by without a meeting," she said with a grin, all traces of seriousness gone, and started backing away. "I would offer to help you with your packages, but I wouldn't want to _distract_ you."

He shook his head again as she walked away, thinking that he had never known a woman quite like her, and wondering how he felt about that.

Enjolras trekked back to his apartment and stashed the donations. The group hadn't decided on an official location for the stockpile of weapons, mostly because they had never discussed_ needing_ weapons. He found a pamphlet on his breakfast table and studied it; the words "stand with us" and "give all you can give" stood out to him in a way they never had before. Was he leading these people into battle?

The moment the thought crossed his mind, he knew it to be true. All of the speeches, all of the meetings and the arguments had been leading to this: not just a revolution, but a revolt.

Without a moment's hesitation, he ran through his apartment and to the door, grabbing his coat along the way. He needed to see Combeferre, even though he was technically still on bed rest. They needed to do some planning.

That night, Marie noticed a change in Enjolras. The meeting was casual, as the men had not tried to rally since Combeferre was hurt, but Enjolras seemed more determined than usual; he did not participate in any high spirited debates, did not order anything to eat, and did not even criticize Grantaire once. He sat in a corner by the window, studying several maps and documents, and only spoke occasionally to call one of his men over. Marie watched him make notes and scratch out writing, but did not dare approach him until the rest of the men had left.

"You're certainly working hard tonight," she commented.

His eyes snapped to hers. "Marie! Could you tell me if this sounds alright?" Without waiting for a response, he cleared his throat and began reading. "In the wake of social oppression and apathy, it is necessary for a people to rise against the very form of enslavement that oppresses them, be it chains, poverty, or government, which threatens to crush the lower class with promises of eternal suffering and injustice, and at the very core diminishes them to live without the enjoyment of the natural faculties of life and liberty—"

"Enjolras!" she blurted, "What are you saying?"

He looked up at her with a blank expression. "It's a speech for the next rally. I've been talking to Combeferre, and he thinks he should be—"

"It makes no sense."

Enjolras stopped. He opened his mouth to speak, but made no sound. On his second try, he managed only to say, "Excuse me?"

"I have no idea what any of that means."

He stared at her in astonishment. "None of it? Not even the part about social oppression? What about the bit about eternal suffering and injustice?"

She shrugged. "It all sounds like a lot of nothing to me. Government, suffering, oppression—I get that everyday. I don't need someone describe it to me in a fancy way."

He threw his paper down. "But there's more to it than that! The people need to know that they are endowed with certain natural rights that can never be taken from them! Haven't you ever heard of John Locke?"

She raised an eyebrow as she started to scrub a nearby table. "Is he a friend of yours?"

"He's a seventeenth century philosopher," he said slowly.

Marie lowered her gaze. "No," she murmured, "I haven't." One of Marie's deepest insecurities was her lack of education. As a child, her father had been her only teacher, and though she was proud of her ability to read, write, and do simple math, she had dreamed of attending a real school one day. But she knew now that her dream was impossible. Women didn't do such things.

Enjolras shook his head. "I suppose I got so carried away, I forgot—"

"That I was stupid? Please, continue to forget that."

"No, Marie, not at all! I would never think that!"

She glared at him, but then sighed. "You wouldn't be wrong. I once thought I might even attend university, so you can see how foolish I truly am."

Once again, Enjolras couldn't speak. He used to think himself eloquent, until he met Marie, but he cleared his throat, and tried again. "I don't think that's foolish. I think you would do wonderfully at the university." She shook her head, but he continued. "I'm serious. Look at the way you help those people living on the streets, and the way you take care of Gavroche, and how you thought up a way for my men to rally after that police attack. You understand difficult problems in a simple way. I've never met anyone who could do that as well as you can. That's what I wish I could do. That's what I _need_ to be able to do."

She looked away, and wrung her hands around her cloth. She had never thought of herself like that, but Enjolras was not one to say something for pity's sake. If he told her this, he must believe it to be true.

"I think you would have greater success at your speeches, Enjolras, if you wrote them as if you were speaking to me." He raised his eyebrow, and she sat beside him. "Here, now what were you saying about social oppression? You'd be better off giving examples, like the failed election last year, or the lack of government aid to the poor."

Enjolras nodded slowly, as if he was beginning to see things the way she did. "Yes, alright, what else?"

And they sat together for the next few hours, speaking almost as fast as Enjolras' quill moved. Madame Musain sat in the kitchen after the children had gone off with Gavroche, and listened to the lilting voice of her daughter, coupled with the soft and steady voice of her companion. She sighed and smiled indulgently, satisfied by knowing she had been right all along.


	10. Chapter 10

The marketplace had never been so crowded in all her life, but Marie could pay attention only to the blond man in the center of the crowd, hardly believing it was the same man she had befriended over the past few months.

"Look at yourselves; is there anyone among you who does not work for every scrap of bread they're given? Is there anyone who has not known hunger, or poverty, or loss? You are workers; without you, Paris would be fueled by nothing. And yet, the king rules over you as if you are expendable, worthless, and stupid. Do you think he works half as hard as you do for his daily bread? Why, then, do you live under the reign of a king who would rather see you rot to death in slums than intervene in your affairs? I tell you, join us! Stand with us, and you will see a new world, where no one who works for his keep will ever starve!"

The crowd cheered, and Marie watched members of the Amis hand out pamphlets to those who could read. Her sister, who had been superficially helping with the groceries, squeezed her arm and ran off to speak to Courfeyrac. Eponine had also taken to visiting the square with Marie after agreeing to watch the door of the café at night, and followed Brigitte with her gaze. "Someone's excited about this revolution."

Marie had been immensely relieved to find that she and Eponine were both wary of the revolution, and snickered with her. "Brigitte has never been excited about anything but men."

Eponine shook her head. "And you only get excited over their money, is that right?"

"You're one to talk; look at your own parents," Marie muttered, and to her relief, Eponine laughed. Eponine was a good companion for cynicism, even at her own expense. That made Marie both amused and sad.

"Marie, you should expect at least twice the usual number at our meeting tonight!" Marius interrupted, and Eponine blushed hard. Marie didn't comment; the one subject over which Eponine was singularly offended was Marius. Yet another facet of Eponine's life that saddened Marie, knowing that the handsome and woefully oblivious Marius regarded Eponine as nothing more than a willing companion. Still, she took off with him out of the square, and Marie was left alone as Gavroche ran over to her.

She smiled. "Well, it looks as if it's just us at the café this afternoon, Gavroche."

"Actually, mum, Courf' asked if I wanted to have lunch with him today, and I said I would."

"Oh," she said, crestfallen, "Yes. Of course."

He smiled and waved his goodbye before disappearing into the crowd, leaving Marie to drag the groceries home alone.

For the first time, Marie wondered whether she was missing out on something by staying unmarried, without a family of her own. She had always seen other girls around her giggle about boys and husbands, and though she didn't disapprove, she always felt strangely removed from them. Honestly, the thought of having a husband almost frightened her. It was so much easier to be alone, to answer to herself, only, and she never hoped to find someone who would understand that.

But then again, these schoolboys had their own ideas. They, like her, wished to answer to no one. Surely they could understand how afraid she was of giving up that independence. Or, at least, one of them could.

Her thoughts strayed as she helped her mother and a few of Gavroche's friends prepare lunch. Her mother attempted to bring her into their conversation of boys, but she could not think of anything she'd like to discuss less. This wasn't helped by the fact that Enjolras arrived at their door two hours before his meeting.

"Hello, Eponine let me in, and I was wondering if—" he looked up and realized he was in a larger company than he anticipated. "Ah, Madame Musain, it's a pleasure. I was wondering if I could borrow Marie?"

Madame Musain gave her daughter a knowing glance, and fixed Enjolras in what she thought was a disparaging frown. "I'm afraid this isn't the best time for callers, dearie."

"Forgive me," he said with a slight bow, "Perhaps it can wait until later."

"Oh no!" Madame Musain said quickly, "I mean, if it is truly important…"

"It would only take a few moments."

"Very well," Madame Musain said, with what she hoped was a casual air, "Marie, you may go."

Marie sighed at the glint in her mother's eye, but was curious enough about Enjolras' offer that she did not protest. She followed him out the back door, and they walked for a minute in silence, his hands behind his back.

"Your speech was very good today," she said finally.

He smiled slowly. "All thanks to you. In fact," he offered her a small package that he had been holding, "I wanted to give this to you."

"I—" she stuttered, quite taken back, "What is this for?"

He shrugged. "Open it and see."

She obliged, and could not hold back her smile. "The Collected Works of John Locke?"

"Well, I know the English are a lot of twits, but some of them were bound to have some good ideas, and I thought perhaps you might like his work, if only to browse over once in a while—"

"I've never had my own book before," she admitted.

He raised an eyebrow, as if he could not imagine such a small joy being denied to anyone. "Really?"

"My father used to borrow books from the university, but we always had to return them. Even my mother's bible was never my own."

"Did your father attend university?"

She laughed. "Good God, no! He used to sweep floors at the school before the café opened, only to have access to the library. We never had any kind of money for luxuries like education, but my father always believed there was nothing that a book couldn't teach."

"He's right about that," Enjolras said, and then looked down thoughtfully at his red jacket. "What was he like?"

She sighed. "He was wonderful. My father was the only teacher I ever had, and I'm sure some of what he told me wasn't exactly right. But he was always so excited about all of it—particularly math, though he had a hard time figuring it out himself. And instead of bedtime stories, he would give Brigitte and I history lessons. But he was always so good at telling them, I never knew the difference." She paused, smiling thoughtfully. "He would have liked you."

"Really?"

She nodded. "You have a lot of the same ideas. I don't think anything upset him more than the state of his country. If he were still around, I know he would do anything he could to help you." She did not say that she was almost glad her father wasn't around to do so.

Enjolras looked away. "What happened to him?"

Marie sighed. "He had a habit of sticking his nose in where it wasn't welcome. He used to petition the courts at least once a week to set up a home for Saint-Michele's poor. I guess they got tired of dealing with him, so they recommended him for the army. Said he was a leader." She shook her head.

"He died in battle, then?" Enjolras asked, still avoiding her eyes.

"Well they sent him off to Greece in '27, but he only lasted a month. They said he died of illness, and I hope he did. I hope he never had to see a battle."

"Because he hated war," Enjolras said, remembering what she had told him when she gave him the red jacket.

"He thought violence was a crime, and the violent should be held responsible for their actions in war. He used to say, 'Crime doesn't happen to specific people, it happens _because of _specific people'. So he didn't like wars because they harmed everyone."

"Sometimes," Enjolras said slowly, "War is necessary."

She shrugged. "I don't see when."

"You will," he murmured to himself, and luckily she didn't hear him.

"So, enough about me. What of your life before university?" she asked, suddenly curious.

He looked away. "Nothing special, really."

"What are your parents like?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Rich, I suppose. My father was a lawyer, as was every other male relative in the family. He hoped—expected, actually—that I would follow in his footsteps. That's the reason I was sent here, anyway."

"Certainly not for protesting," Marie quipped.

He grimaced. "My parents will find out about that soon enough, and when they do I'm sure I won't be welcome home."

"What?" she cried, "They would disown you?" Marie could not imagine her own parents ever forsaking her from the family, and was appalled to think that Enjolras' parents might not feel the same way.

"Happens all the time, in my lot," he said stiffly, "Sons who don't uphold the family name are no use to anyone."

Still, Marie could not believe it. "Your own _mother_ would do that?"

"Yes, I daresay she would." He glanced at her horrified expression and gave a short smile. "Marie, how old are you?"

"Nineteen."

He shook his head. "So young! So naïve!"

She scoffed. "And you can't be more than twenty!"

"Twenty-two, actually."

"Far too young to be disowned from your family."

He shrugged. "Combeferre was younger than I when he was thrown out. No real tragedy though; his father is not the type of man you miss."

Marie bit her lip, wide-eyed. "I had no idea. Most of them, then, have no family?"

"Marius certainly doesn't. And poor Courfeyrac—perhaps I shouldn't tell you, but his brother died before he came to university. I don't think he's had any desire to return home since. The rest of them don't speak of their families, or maybe have none to speak of."

She clutched her book thoughtfully. "This is too sad a place to be alone."

He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. "But they aren't—we all stay together. I couldn't ask for better men."

"Nor I," she agreed, "Not that they're mine—"

"They're as much yours as anyone's," he promised, "And they like to consider you their own, as well."

Her mouth dropped open, but she found she could not say anything. Her sudden speechlessness, however, meant more to Enjolras than anything she could have said.

They had walked around in a circle, and had found their way back to the café almost subconsciously. Enjolras stopped, and gestured to the door. "Well, you should get back in before your mother comes looking for you. I hope she won't be too angry with me."

Marie rolled her eyes. "She adores you, Enjolras. I never thought she'd be able to fool you into thinking otherwise."

He smiled, and looked as if he wanted to say something more, but was interrupted by a shrill warning.

"I told you, I don't let _scum_ into this café!"

Marie and Enjolras walked out from behind the building to find Eponine arguing with Julian.

"And _I _told _you, _I got business with Marie." He looked over, and a shadow passed over his face when he saw her with Enjolras. "Well, now, what's goin' on here?"

"Julian, what's wrong?" Marie demanded. Julian sighed.

"What, I'm not allowed to drop by for company? Not with this new watchdog you've got, I suppose."

Eponine's nostrils flared. "I swear, keep talking and I'll—"

"You'll what? Call Montparnasse? Believe me, I'm not afraid of him."

Eponine shrieked and would have lunged at Julian, if not for Enjolras' restraining hand on her arm. Julian surveyed the scene with interest, then turned to Marie and muttered, "Interesting company you keep."

She dragged Julian a few feet away, and hissed, "What is going on?"

"What the hell do you think you're playing at, running around with that, that _bourgeoisie?_" he demanded, fixing her in a glare.

"Enjolras?" she cried, "He's not the enemy!"

"You think so? Haven't you heard about this revolt he's staging?"

She drew back. "He's not staging a revolt!"

"Are you _blind_? "What do you think they've been planning all this time?"

She shrugged. "Their stupid little, little…"

"Revolution?" he finished, and she shied away from the word. "Well, if it's so innocent, why do you flinch every time someone mentions it?"

She looked away. "I don't like the word. They're only using it to rile the people up."

"Then what's the need for donations?"

She crossed her arms. "To help the poor, of course."

He shook his head. "Then why is he asking for silver?"

"To—to sell."

"Or to melt for bullets! He's riling up all of Saint-Michele with this talk, and the police are taking notice. I heard them talking about breaking up the next rally. They're _scared_, Marie, and empty talk doesn't scare inspectors."

She turned away. "You're being ridiculous."

"I can't protect you from his kind Marie," he said softly, "and don't say you don't need protecting. Besides, when he's done with you, he'll spit you out without a second thought."

She whipped around, disgusted. "It's nothing like that, and even if it was, it's none of your business!"

"Are you putting up with him because you think he'd marry you?" he scoffed. "He's out of our class, Marie, and you know it. I mean, just look at that coat he wears!"

Marie clenched her teeth. "That was my father's coat."

Julian's eyes widened, and he asked cruelly, "Giving him clothes, are you? Have you gone to bed with him, too?"

She slapped Julian in the face and stalked back to the café. Both Eponine and Enjolras tried to coax information out of her, but she walked around to the back and slammed the door on them and the rest of the world.


	11. Chapter 11

"Marie!" her mother cried as she slumped against the doorframe. "What have I told you about slamming doors?"

"Sorry," she muttered lamely, still angry with Julian.

Her mother raised an eyebrow. "Is everything alright?"

"Julian's being an ass, for one thing."

"Honestly Marie, there is nothing less becoming on a woman than foul language!" her mother shouted, though she looked relieved. "And anyway, I don't like you hanging around with that boy. He's no good!"

"Not like Monsieur _Enjolras,"_ Brigitte cooed from her perch behind the table.

Marie shot her a glare, but Madame Musain's face brightened. "Ah, yes! What did our handsome friend want?"

Marie shrugged. "Just to talk. He gave me this…"

"A ring?" her mother cried hopefully.

"A _book_," Marie clarified, and Brigitte laughed at their mother's deflated expression.

"Really, Mama, what would he want with a low-class girl like Marie?"

Marie then threw a wet rag at her sister, which landed sloppily on her head.

"Girls, ENOUGH!" their mother screeched, but both were too busy laughing to hear.

Soon enough the young woman arrived to help Madame Musain in the kitchen, and the girls left to tend to their respective floors. Brigitte was always assigned to the first floor and bar, because men liked to spend money on a meal to flirt with her. Marie mused that there was something ethereal in Brigitte's beauty; her frequent fevers left her with a hectic blush on her high cheeks, framed delicately by her large eyes and wispy hair. She was like a fairy in that way, and men could hardly resist trying to catch her by her imaginary wings. Marie never had that same prominent beauty, though she was pretty and much kinder than her sister. Instead, she liked to tend to the meetings upstairs, and talk to as few people as possible.

Marius had been right in his prediction. Men crowded the upper room, to the point that Marie uncharacteristically found herself entertaining more of them than her sister. She was so overwhelmed that she missed all of Enjolras' speech, and paid very little attention to anything that was said after. The members of the Amis were elated after the meeting, and all stayed until nearly midnight to discuss it. Though she was quite fond of them, her aching feet begged for them to leave so she could clean up for the night, and she found herself almost annoyed when Enjolras tried to start a conversation after everyone else had gone.

"Now _that_ was a meeting," Enjolras sighed. He looked pleased, which was something new.

Marie agreed vaguely, and Enjolras took the hint to help her with the dishes, despite her feeble protesting. He was in a good mood, and chatted amicably about the meeting.

"Sure, we lose a few men each meeting, but we always attract more. I don't think anyone realized how eager these people are for change. Paris is brimming with young men willing to join the fight."

Her ears perked up at fight, and she turned to look at him finally. "That reminds me—Julian told me something perfectly ridiculous today."

"I forgot about that," Enjolras said, scrunching his eyebrows down in the middle, "What did he want?"

Marie flicked her wrist. "He had heard all these rumors about you and your men. Of course, I set him straight."

His eyes widened. "Rumors?"

She shrugged, and focused on collecting dishes off the table. "He was just saying that you're planning to stage a revolt, which, of course, is ridiculous, right?" She paused when he failed to respond, and her eyes snapped back to him. "Enjolras?"

He gave her a withered look. "You haven't been paying attention to the meeting at all, have you?"

Her heart leapt to her throat, and she tried in vain to swallow it down. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that's exactly what we're planning."

Her blood froze over at his words. She stared at him for several seconds, hoping desperately that he would laugh and tell her it was all a joke. But he remained completely stoic.

Her eyes swiveled around to the window overlooking the street, and for a wild second, she was positive the rainwater streaming over the pavement was actually blood. He was planning a war. With his friends. Underneath _her_ roof.

"No," she whispered.

"Marie, are you alright?" he asked, reaching out to touch her arm.

She jerked away. "No! You can't be! You won't!"

"Won't, _what_?"

"Won't come in here and plan how to lure my friends to their deaths. No! I won't allow it!"

He shook his head. "It's the revolution. It's been happening all along."

She grabbed the end of a table to steady herself. All these months, she'd been helping them along, and she never even realized…never _wanted_ to realize…

"Get out," she said.

"Marie?"

"Get OUT! I never want to see you or your friends here again!"

Enjolras' mouth dropped open. "You can't be serious…"

But she kicked over a chair in front of her when he tried to get near her. Gone was the docile girl who wanted to own books and teased him about his blue eyes. She clutched a dinner knife in her hand, and in that moment, he was sure she would use it to force him out of the attic. He backed away and shook his head.

"You'll regret this."

And he dashed down the stairs before she had time to throw a plate at his head, leaving her to sink to her knees and come quietly undone alone.


	12. Chapter 12

Marie had always been very good at telling herself not to care. She cared when caring meant something. She had not tried to block out her emotions on the day of her father's funeral—it would have been a disgrace to his memory to hold back her tears. He should have had the masses crying over his death, and it was infinitely unfair that all he got were a few people who loved him deeply. So she did her part in honoring him.

But there were plenty of instances where it did no good to be upset. She had not shed a tear when her father told her, at ten, that girls did not attend school, and he couldn't teach her everything from books. So she would not know everything—it was nothing to be upset about. (Though she passed the university at every chance afterward, and wondered miserably whether the library could be seen from the road.)

She had not cried at fifteen, when she let a barber cut her hair to sell (though her mother had). They had been desperate for money, and desperation does not allow for misery. (Though now she was quite vain about her hair, and never wore a bonnet to cover it.)

She stared stoically ahead when her disgruntled mother told her, at sixteen, that the butcher, a man thirty years her senior, had been eyeing her much like the meat he was used to selling (though she never went to the butcher by herself after that).

She put her head down when men on the street whistled at her, avoided shops that sold beautiful clothes, and refused to look at girls her own age, who were not poor and did not have to find ways to trick their stomachs into thinking they were full everyday. She was glad that she was no longer desperate, though she knew, of course that she was poor. And she promised herself that it didn't bother her.

So she told herself strictly, _It is alright that I banned the Amis. It is for the best that I never see Enjolras again. I never even realized what he truly was—he is no good for me. I don't need his revolution. I don't need _him_. It is for the best._

She opened her eyes, awake but not out of bed, and watched the sunlight stream in through the split in the curtains. The sun had gotten up without Enjolras. So should she.

Her feet hit the floor, her hands pulled on her clothes, and her legs carried her into the kitchen to start the morning shift. She was a perfect statue, alive only to what was happening around her. In some distant part of her brain, her thoughts were scrambled and broken, but her conscious mind was set on not caring. And besides, it was the outward display of caring, not the inward, that mattered to her.

It wasn't until lunchtime, however, that her heart flared up long enough to betray her.

"So, is there another meeting tonight?" Brigitte asked casually. They were scrubbing tables after the breakfast crowd had gone.

"No," Marie answered simply, keeping her face down.

"Huh. They have gotten so lazy since Combeferre got hurt. Courfeyrac was telling me that Enjolras is at his wit's end without his friend. It'll be nice to have him back, won't it?"

"They aren't coming back," she whispered, traces of bitterness seeping into her words.

Brigitte stopped and looked up. "What?"

"I threw Enjolras out. They won't be back here."

There was a beat of silence, and Marie glanced up. Brigitte was panic-stricken.

"But, but…why would you do that?"

Marie raised an eyebrow. "Why does it matter to you?"

"You—you can't just do that. You can't just throw away the only good thing that's happened to us since before papa died. You can't!"

"They are _not_ good for us. Do you have any idea what they were planning?"

"Of course!" Brigitte roared. "They're planning to _help_ us! They're the only people who have ever tried to do that. And you think you can just _shun_ them?"

The blood rushed to Marie's cheeks. "Brigitte, you have no idea. They aren't trying to help us, they're trying to _use_ us! We won't be pawns in their little game. They'll get us all killed!"

"No, _you_ have no idea! You're just afraid to have anything good in your life! You can't see that—"

"That what they're asking to do is dangerous? That they're just arrogant schoolboys who have never known what it's like to be uncared for? Why should we risk everything for them?"

Brigitte threw her hands up. "Arrogant? Two days ago you would have said they were your closest friends!"

Marie looked away. "I'm not _friends_ with any of them. And you're stupid if you think they only want our friendship."

Brigitte shook her head slowly. "Don't you dare imply something like that. They're good men. It's not my fault if you don't know what a good man is like."

"Oh, and you do?" she laughed cruelly. "You know nothing! All they want is someplace to come and drink and talk about lofty things that could get us all in trouble. Maybe they fooled me for a while, but at least I understand now. But you…how could you be so blind?"

"You're the one that's blind! Courfeyrac said—"

"Is _that_ what this is all about? Trust me, I'm doing what's best for you. You don't need a man like him. You'll just get into trouble."

Brigitte's mouth dropped open, but she faltered for words. Marie was taken back at the genuine hurt that filled her eyes, but her sister's face hardened quickly. She took a few steps closer to Marie, and aimed her next words exactly where they hurt the most.

"Papa would be so disappointed in you."

Before she even realized what she was doing, Marie raised her hand and slapped her sister straight in the face. After an instant, they both stared at each other in horror, Marie's hand still in the air, the imprint of it glowing red across Brigitte's cheek.

"No, Brigitte, I—" Marie gasped, but Brigitte stumbled a few steps backward, clutching her cheek. Their mother burst through the kitchen door.

"Girls, what's happened? Did you drop something?" she asked, but froze when she took in the scene. Before she could say anything, Brigitte dashed through the kitchen and slammed the door.

All was quiet for a moment, before Madame Musain glared at her eldest daughter. "Marie Elizabeth Musain…"

"Mama, I didn't mean to…I couldn't have! I—I'm so sorry—"

"You can stay here and work the rest of the day by yourself," she said levelly, and stalked out to find Brigitte.

Marie covered her mouth with a shaky hand and closed her eyes. She had never raised a hand to her sister. They fought, sure, maybe even threw things, but always aimed to miss. What could have possessed her to do something so base, so _awful_…?

But she didn't have time to do anything more, for the widow Lorraine arrived with her baby son to work in the kitchen. Marie reopened the café for lunch, and waited on tables by herself for the rest of the day. There wasn't so much traffic, since Enjolras had honored her command and stayed away, but she was only worried about her sister and mother, who both also failed to reappear. She sent Lorraine home early, wanting to do at least something good, and spent the rest of the night tending to the bar.

She was so caught up in her thoughts that she didn't notice a familiar face until he called for her.

"Dear miss, I think I need another drink."

She looked up. "Grantaire? How long have you been here?"

He shrugged. "Just got thrown out of the pub down the street. Figured I could find some kindness here."

She sighed, but wasn't disappointed to see him. He was too much of a skeptic to be useful to Enjolras, and he drank like a fish. "Haven't you had enough for tonight?" she asked, knowing he had not.

"Never enough."

So she gave him a shot of whiskey and rearranged the bottles while he contemplated her. "I didn't hear about a meeting tonight," he said.

"That's because there wasn't one," she returned, and at his questioning glance, added, "I am no longer allowing meetings here."

He raised his eyebrows. "Really?" he asked, and downed the shot in one quick motion. She refilled his glass instead of elaborating, and he downed that one too.

There were a few moments of this back and forth before he said, "I wouldn't have been surprised if there had been a meeting and no one bothered to mention it to me."

She cocked her head. "Why would you say that?"

"Because they all think I'm useless," he stated, and she winced guiltily. "Especially _him_. He has no use for me."

She didn't have to ask who _he_ was. "That's just wrong. He shouldn't turn away from you simply because he can't find a use for you. You're a person, not a slave."

Grantaire shook his head sloppily, and it occurred to her that she should have withheld some of the shots of whiskey. "No, no. I'm a disgrace. I can tell he thinks so. I disappoint him. I should be better."

"Grantaire, why do you say this?"

"Because it's true, and you'll listen to me. You're kind, Marie, kinder than anyone. He loathes me. But I vex him, because I don't know what else to do. It doesn't matter if he glares at me, as long as he's looking."

The word "kind" jabbed her heart like a knife, and there was a moment's silence as she wondered how much of this was just the liquor talking and how much was the truth.

Finally, Grantaire asked in a small voice, "Back when the police raided…was he hurt very badly?"

"Grantaire, you saw him walk up the stairs. He was fine."

He shook his miserable head. "I should have been there. I haven't forgiven myself for it. I try to forget—but booze and women can only do so much."

Again, Marie did not know what to say. She liked Grantaire very much, because he was sad and didn't know how to deal with it. She often felt that way herself, as good as she was at promising she didn't care.

"Grantaire, you should be getting home," she said finally. "I'll walk you." They were the only two left in the bar, and she feared he wouldn't be able to find his way home alone.

"I couldn't ask a lady to do that," he muttered, but stumbled as he tried to get off his barstool. She quickly went to help him shrug on his coat, and led him out the door.

"What about your money?"

She shrugged. "We'll figure it out later." And they set off.

With some prompts by Grantaire, they made it back to his apartment.

"I would take you up there," she said, "But I'm afraid of what the neighbors would think."

He leaned against her heavily, "If you _wanna_ give 'em somethin' to talk about…"

"Good_night_, Grantaire."

"G'night, Marie," he slurred, and planted a sloppy kiss on her cheek.

She watched him disappear through the door, and turned to walk home.

The entire day had been miserable, and she worried vehemently for her sister. Where had she gone all day? Had she made it home yet? She wasn't sure if she could face Brigitte yet, but nothing could be worse than the young woman wandering the streets alone.

And what of Grantaire? He was a handful, but he was sincere. She could never dismiss a sincere person, for she knew so few. If only there was some way to help him, maybe he wouldn't drink so much. She suspected that underneath all of the slurs, there was an extremely intelligent mind. If only she could see into it…

Marie had been so lost in her thoughts that she did not realize she had gotten actually lost. These streets were unfamiliar to her, and her stomach clenched in a panic. Maybe if she went back up the block, she could see where she made a wrong turn…

"Oi, Miss, where're you headed to?"

The voice was rough, male, and directed at her, the only other person on the street.

She froze. Instincts told her that nothing good could come of this, and that she should run down the street as fast as she could. But fear rooted her to the spot.

"I'm talkin' to you, Miss," he said, footsteps slapping the pavement. "Don't turn your back on me."

Running would do her no good now, for he'd certainly catch up. Her gut told her to keep him calm, so she turned toward him slowly. He was tall and grimily handsome, but the leering way in which he smiled confirmed her fears. She cleared her throat. "Monsieur, I didn't see you there. I was just going home, I'm sorry to disturb you…" She made her way to the nearest door, praying like mad that the person inside would let her in if she knocked. But the man was too quick for her.

He strode up to her and grabbed her wrist. Her forehead broke out in a cold sweat, and she knew she was trapped.

"Oh, don't leave me here like _that_," he drawled, leading her away from the door. She wasn't on Julian's territory—no one was coming to save her.

"Monsieur, if you'll just tell me what you want—" she said desperately as he led her down a dark alley. He chuckled menacingly.

"Let me just _show_ you," he purred, grabbing her waist and pinning her against the wall. The knot in her stomach exploded in a scream that scared even herself. Was no one awake to help her?

"That's one pretty little scream you've got. Shall we try for another?"

He reached around to his back pocket and she screamed again, though she imagined it was pointless. If _he_ wasn't even bothering to stop her, surely there was no chance of anyone coming. But what he brought back up to show her sent another scream through her throat: a gleaming knife.

"No, please, _please_!" she begged, but he only chuckled again.

"There are far worse things that could happen to you, love," he murmured, tracing the tip of the knife over the bodice of her dress. She whimpered, tears obscuring her vision.

"Let me go, please, let me go, and I won't tell anyone, I promise!"

"You won't be telling anyone, that's for sure."

The cold metal of the knife touched the skin on her throat, and she was shaking so badly it cut into her with no pressure. She twisted in his grip.

"No, no!"

But he paused as a familiar voice intruded on the scene. "Montparnasse? What are you doing?!"

He panicked, and it was his reflex to finish what he had started. Without hesitation, he brought back the knife, and stabbed it into Marie's side.

She slipped to her knees, though she felt numb and everything around her blurred into a haze. For a moment, she thought he merely punched her, until wetness dripped onto her hand and the world disappeared into blackness.


End file.
